Outrunning the Flame
by SSJL
Summary: If you get too close, a burn is inevitable.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: First-time Mentalist fic writer here! Trying things out with these two, and finding them rather delicious.**

**Because I have zero self-restraint, I wrote and am posting this without having quite finished S2 yet. So I'm praying I didn't 1. Include something that canon has since disproved, 2. Commit character assassination or 3. Touch on all the fic clichés I don't know about that the fandom makes fun of. If I did any of those things, I'm so very sorry for my impatience.**

**I also apologize to those who are/were hoping for an update on one of my Bones stories; I just have to go where the inspiration takes me.**

* * *

No amount of time put in at the gym ever quite prepared her for the aftermath of grappling with a suspect; even a simple tackle would make her realize a few hours later that the muscles you use to subdue a 200-pound, tattooed steroid-addict are simply muscles that don't get used all that often. Thank God for that. The amount she _did _use them was already too much.

It was part of the job, and she didn't hesitate to do it, but right now when her body was screaming with every movement, she had a few thoughts about why she didn't just become a lawyer like her high school career counselor said she should.

The truth was, as passionate about her work as she was, it tired her in more than one way, and she wasn't immune to doubts. She knew it was all worth all the anxiety, worth every blow she took. But also knowing that they were never _really _any closer to a world without murder and crime, that no matter how many bad guys they put away, there was always another one to take their place—it sat uneasily in the back of her mind, teasing that no matter how much this job consumed her, she would _never _consume it.

Thinking about it depressed her. She'd traded her life for a job that literally made her ache.

_Correction, _the little voice in her mind piped up at the thought. _You escaped your life, for the job. In the job._

That was even more depressing. She was too young for a mid-life crisis, and these thoughts were wholly unwelcome.

_Not _that _much too young, _her masochistic side pointed out.

A deeply ingrained part of her immediately wished for another enormous suspect to chase; because existential concerns never entered her mind when she was running at break-neck speed, trying to catch a criminal.

Masochism, matched with masochism.

There was a knock at her door. It was inevitable, really; there was no time to be self-pitying in this place, no space to nurse your wounds. Jane's face appeared in the window, accompanied by a smile and a tiny wave.

Just what she needed. _Another _reminder of how frustrating her job could be.

With a sigh, she motioned him in. "What can I do for you?"

In typical Jane fashion, he ignored the question.

"You, Lisbon, could have a shot in any major league football team I've ever seen play. That was magnificent."

She raised her eyebrow at him, still never quite sure when he was making fun of her, or was genuinely admiring. Sometimes she suspected that it was _always _a little bit of both. But he'd seen her take down suspects before, so she could reasonably assume that he was here now because they were now officially between cases, and he was bored. "Thanks." It was short, clipped, and didn't invite further conversation.

"Why are you grumpy? It's a good day. You caught the bad guy."

She moved files around on her desk in an attempt to look like she'd been doing something _very important _before he'd interrupted. "All I said was thanks, Jane. You get 'grumpy' out of that?"

"I do. Because you are." He flashed a smile. "Come on out. I have a celebratory cup of tea with your name on it."

She was conditioned to be annoyed by him, maybe; it was a nice gesture, but her instinct was that he could see _perfectly _that she wasn't in the mood for socializing, and was pushing her to do it anyway. Maybe she was just going to be annoyed by anything and everyone today. "No thanks."

"Liiiisbon. Teeaaa." He drew out the words, waggling his eyebrows suggestively in an attempt to be persuasive, but it just pissed her off.

"Tea," she muttered morosely. "Why can't you drink coffee like a man?"

"Ouch. Insulting my masculinity? You _are _grumpy, woman."

She hated when he called her that. It made her feel like he was one step away from ordering her to make a sandwich—probably, if she were honest, the reason for her attack on his tea-drinking ways. She bit back another snarky comment.

"I'm just tired. Rough day, you know."

"Yes, I do." He cocked his head, scanning her up and down. Then… "You're hurting."

"It's not so bad." She made sure to sit stock-still when she said it, because any movement would bring a tell-tale grimace.

Of course, her efforts were in vain, because this was Patrick Jane. "Liar. Why would you lie about that? Men twice your size would be in pain after that throw-down. The fact that you're hurting certainly isn't any indication of weakness."

The fact was, she didn't know _why _she'd lie about it; maybe just because "I'm fine" came second nature to her, especially within the walls of this building. She gave a long-suffering smile. "I appreciate your concern. I'll take a long, hot bath tonight and be as good as new tomorrow, okay?"

"You don't even have to wait that long. I'll fix it."

"Oh, I must have missed your graduation from medical school!"

He held up his hands palms-forward, flexing his fingers several times for dramatic effect. "I'm better than a doctor, or your money back."

She eyed him incredulously. A backrub? He was suggesting a backrub, in much the same way as he introduced a particularly new and exciting magic trick. "Not necessary. But thank you."

"Nonsense. What kind of friend would I be if I simply allowed you to finish your day in this state, when I have the power to make you feel better?" He brushed off her rejection as if it were an annoying insect, walking to the desk and taking her hand. His pull was gentle, designed to make the pull-ee feel like it was her idea to make the move. She knew his tricks, yet still found herself halfway across the office to her couch before she even knew it what she was doing.

She groaned, thigh muscles protesting as he helped her ease down onto the sofa. "Jane, I really don't need…"

"Shh." He held a finger up with a smile, and moved away from her as she watched questioningly. Pulling the cord by her office windows, he turned all the blinds shut. "There. Now you don't have to worry about people getting the wrong idea."

"I'm not worried about that," she muttered, hating the implication. The people she worked with knew her; at least, they knew that her job was paramount, and that boundary issues with her colleagues were _not _a problem. The mere suggestion was laughable, especially when the colleague in question was Jane.

Still, with the blinds closed, her desire to deny his offer was considerably dampened.

"Nonetheless." He came in beside her on the couch, urging her jacket off her shoulders and her body into a sideways position, facing away from him. "You will soon feel ultimate relaxation."

She rolled her eyes, even as she gave up the pretenses of resistance and gathered her hair up and out of the way, giving him complete access to her shoulders. "Try to hypnotize me and I'll shoot you," she muttered.

"There will hardly be any need for that," he scoffed gently, squeezing for the first time.

She had to repress a groan, the pleasure/pain of long-tense and battered muscles being coaxed into relaxation almost unbearably intense.

"There, there," he said softly. "Don't fight it. Relax into the touch."

"You sound like this creepy boyfriend I had in high school," she forced out, this time unsuccessful at holding in a moan.

"Quiet. And I hope your taste has improved since then." He rubbed, firmly, rhythmically.

Her eyes fell shut. "Let's not go there."

"Which is why I shushed."

That was fair enough, and she did her best for a few moments to be lulled by the skillful kneading and rubbing of her shoulders. That Jane had amazing hands was no surprise to her; they were an important part of his show, used for manipulating, hiding, deflecting, and he certainly used them well. Also, she had no doubt that he wouldn't have offered this service, if he hadn't thought it would impress her. But that those hands felt as masculine as they did clever—it was unexpected.

Despite his shushing, it was he who spoke next. "I know that some of the tackling of rogue suspects can't be helped, but… your situation here would likely be improved if stopped lounging on your left side to watch those cooking shows at night— it's a useless endeavor anyway since you don't cook. It's creating alignment problems that are contributing to _this_." To punctuate, he pressed this thumbs to either side of her spine, the more intense soreness there telling her that he'd hit his mark.

"I…" As usual, her first instinct was to deny it all, despite its veracity; just once, she wanted the smug bastard to be _wrong, _just for once_. _But she'd been told enough times that she was a bad liar. She sighed, and cut to the chase by asking the inevitable question. "How did you know that?"

"Oh, the lounging on your left side thing?" He asked it casually, as if he hadn't anticipated and hoped for another chance to show off his observational prowess. "By the patterns of your responses, the feel of the muscles, and the fact that this elbow…" He caressed it, for emphasis. "…Is rougher than the other. You prop it on the armrest of the sofa."

"And the cooking shows?"

"You seem the type."

She scowled, and she could hear his quiet chuckle.

"Okay, okay. I noticed the number on your cable box both times I was at your apartment. It was a reasonable assumption. An educated guess."

She harrumphed softly. "I _can _cook. I just don't have enough time for it."

"Of course you don't. You are a very busy woman."

If she weren't feeling ever-more loose and practically tranquilized, she'd want to punch his patronizing face, no matter how much admiration lay under his teasing.

Instead, her chin dropped down while his fingers returned to the back of her neck. The first time he was in her apartment was to hypnotize her when she was suspected (_suspected herself) _of murder; the second time was for maybe thirty seconds when she had been driving with him and forgot something at home she needed for a case. The fact that in either circumstance, he'd find the number on her cable box an important piece of information to collect, was baffling. God only knew what other tidbits he picked up about her while he was in her personal space. "Doesn't it ever get old?" she mused, already fairly certain of the answer. "Just… knowing everything?"

He paused for a fraction of a second. "Why would it? It helps me make more informed decisions. Prepares me for what's coming."

Lifting her shoulders a bit to encourage him not to stop, she responded. "But there are never any surprises."

"Ironic you'd use that to make your point, since you hate surprises."

"That's a generalization. I like nice surprises."

"Hmm." He said it in a vaguely disbelieving tone, as if he thought she were either bullshitting him, or herself.

She ignored it. "My brother does that thing, you know, where you give him a gift and he tries to guess it before he opens it. It's annoying as hell. You spend all that time trying to pick out something nice, and something personal, and he takes the fun out of it by guessing."

"Because he's usually right, yes? You don't get annoyed that he guesses. You get annoyed that he's accurate."

"Whatever. He could at least pretend to be surprised."

"You'd rather he lie? Tsk, tsk, Lisbon. That's not like you."

"I'd rather he didn't try, and just… go with it."

"Ah. And that's what you want me to do. Just go with it."

"Please." She said it, knowing it was a lost cause.

He chuckled softly. "I'll try. Perhaps you should take your own advice, as well."

"Mmm. I'll try, too." Her voice was devoid of optimism.

"Lie down, on your stomach."

"Huh?" The request pulled her a bit from her massage-driven catatonia. "I don't think so."

"Come on. Don't fight me. I'll be able to work the muscles on your lower back a little better." His hands pressed on her gently, and hell if she hadn't lost all will to give more than a token protest. There had never been any doubt that the man was convincing; although she prided herself on being at least a _little _less susceptible to his persuasive ways than the average bear, he _was _making her feel good right now and turning him down felt like it would be only a punishment to herself.

She sighed as she eased down, pressing the side of her face into one of the cushions and not really alarmed at all when he immediately climbed astride her thighs. Whatever. As long as she was being unprofessional, she might as well go for broke.

Still, she said, voice muffled by the pillows, "I don't know why I'm letting you do this."

"Probably because it's been so long since you let a man touch you like this." He said it as casually as if he were commenting on the weather. "Has it been a very long time… is that part of why you're so tense?"

Was he seriously asking her about her sex life? That was a new level of inappropriateness, even for Jane. She should really just push him off of her and tell him to get back to work; to let _her _get back to work. "That's none of your business. And you just said you wouldn't do that."

"I said I'd try not to tell you things about yourself, not that I wouldn't ask questions."

"You're telling me things about myself and phrasing it as a question. I'm not stupid, Jane."

"Of course you're not." He paused, fists rotating on two particularly tight knots right beneath her shoulder blades, his voice carrying what might have been a genuine hint of apology. "You'll have to forgive me. I notice things, in between the lines of normal interaction and behavior; it's my job, and who I've become. Sometimes I'd like to turn it off, but… I can't."

The admission felt strangely intimate, and despite the fact that she was practically jelly now under his talented fingers, she shifted a little uncomfortably beneath him and tried to ignore the warm feeling of the insides of his thighs on the outsides of hers. "You could just shut your mouth about it, though. God knows you're good at keeping pertinent info about cases to yourself, so I know you're capable."

He continued regardless, in that quiet, seductive tone. "I don't think less of you, you know. For not wanting me to stop touching you. It's a basic human need, to touch, and be touched."

A twinge of anger went through her, seeming to only amplify the strange sensual energy that hummed through her body. "Why do you have to be such an ass, Jane?"

His hands were languid now, honey-slow, and he ignored her attempted insult. "I feel it too, sometimes. Even people like us get lonely."

_What was he doing? These were boundaries that they'd barely come close to skirting, and now he was pushing them? _It made little sense; maybe it was the physical touching that did it. She should have listened to the niggling voice inside her before this started, instead of talking herself out of the discomfort, reasoning with herself that a simple backrub couldn't _possibly _be some sort of Pandora's box… why should it be, when it was from Jane? "We have nothing in common. There're no 'people like us'," she protested.

"Of course there are." A casual observer might have mistook his tone for breezy, but she knew him just well enough to know better. "People who go through the motions of work day in and day out, trying to fill some emptiness inside of them, waiting for that day when everything they do is paid off, when they feel at peace again, when they can _rest _again. The ones who feel like other people are mostly in the way, but sometimes, in weak moments, they just want what seems to come so easily to everyone else. Just to be close, and to connect. To feel the warmth of another person and just… go with it."

The movement of his hands on her had practically stopped, and she'd almost been lulled by the hypnotic timbre during his speech, when she felt it: the hot, hard press of masculine arousal, right against the softness of her ass.

It barely computed at first. It _had_ been awhile; not so long that she forgot what it felt like, but this was _Jane. _And Jane was charming, and attractive, and _hell _if he didn't fill out a three-piece suit unlike anybody else; but part of her had perhaps assumed that his sexual interest had been killed at the same time as his family, his spirit, and his innocence.

Maybe it had been safer for her to believe that.

But this… this undeniable physical evidence of desire… felt taunting against her. He didn't try to move away. His hands still rested lightly on her shoulders, and she could hear his breathing above her. Rhythmic. Maybe just a little quicker than usual.

The heat that had been slowly building in her body suddenly took a rapid turn southward. It took her a mere moment to make the shift; every Jane-related fantasy that she had repressed or denied or discounted as _ridiculous _because he was him and she was her and as much as she sometimes respected him and maybe even cared for him (_maybe), _it was just _never going to happen…_ they played through her mind at a rapidfire pace, and strangely enough did not repulse her sensibilities, or scare her. Instead, they made her feel…

Reckless.

Teresa Lisbon _never _felt reckless.

For a second she wondered if he really _had_ put her in a trance, performed some trickery that unleashed this insanity inside her. She discounted the thought in the next second, because as crazy as she felt, she also felt shockingly _clear. _Whether she wanted to or not.

Now she half-turned, making him slowly raise off of her so she could flip the whole way around. Amazingly, the movement caused her hardly any pain; he _was _better than a doctor, infuriatingly good at every fucking thing he tried to do.

But so was she.

Resting on her elbows, she met his eyes with what was likely a predatory look. She might not be scared at that moment, but maybe she'd scare him a little.

She _wanted _to scare him. He deserved it, for all the shit he'd put her through since the very beginning. For making her feel these unwanted things right now.

"So," she said, the husky sound of her own voice surprising her. "'People like us.'" She accented every syllable of his quote. "What do you propose they do about it?"

She was gratified by his hesitation. While he'd certainly and obviously anticipated her arousal, she'd hoped that being confronted by it would set him off-balance, disorient him just a little. With his own so _conspicuous, _he didn't have the one-up in this situation. Not anymore. _Match-point, Mr. Jane. Now joke it off, and run away, and this round goes to Lisbon._

It was possible she'd be embarrassed about it later, but right now she could practically _taste _the victory of his retreat.

Maybe it was even the thought of putting him in his place, that was turning her on so much.

His light eyes shone. He blinked, once. He held out his hand.

"Let's go."

_Shit._


	2. Chapter 2

The ride in the car was shockingly devoid of conversation; no bickering, no teasing, and certainly not a single mention of what they were presumably going to do. A glance now and then, as if daring the other to bring it up… a game of chicken, really. Who would be the first to call the other's bluff? How far would they let this go?

But… silence.

By the time they got to her apartment, she hated him a little bit more than she usually did.

She was angry he didn't run away like he was supposed to.

She was furious at her own inability to put a stop to this madness.

She was turned on as all hell.

His angle was a mystery to her. She didn't understand why this, why now; was it another attempt to manipulate her, somehow? Use her?

Of course, you can't get used, if you are the first to do the using. Or you can, but it doesn't feel so bad; there's a strange sense of satisfaction, manipulating the manipulator. It was a sense that she imagined Jane felt every damn day of his life, one that was so powerful and just so damn useful that he'd forgotten how to be any other way.

Jane, however, you could almost forgive; he used his gift for manipulation to protect himself, and didn't he, of all people, have an excellent reason to protect himself? Losing a wife and daughter to a serial killer whom he had baited… a man's psyche could only handle so much trauma.

What was Teresa Lisbon's excuse, right now? She didn't _need _a one-up on Jane; she was already the boss, the one with the final say (even if he so frequently, infuriatingly didn't listen to it). She certainly didn't need to boost her ego, or his.

What she needed, she decided, was a simple fuck into oblivion. Making it more or less than that was a mistake. For either of them.

In that spirit, she faced him and pulled her shirt over her head, tossing it aside carelessly and flicking open her bra with equal irreverence.

He didn't look shocked, exactly; she wasn't sure she had ever seen Jane truly shocked, so it was possible she just didn't know what it looked like. But his lips parted, almost imperceptibly, and his eyes turned glassy. And he stared. Her nipples turned turgid under the air of the room and the caress of his gaze.

The room fell so quiet she could hear the tick of the clock on the wall, mocking her with a steady rhythm that stood in stark contrast with the fluttering of her heart.

"You're so small," he murmured, gaze sliding intently up and down. Always intently.

The burst of boldness that had driven her impromptu stripping seemed to drain away as fast as it came on. She resisted the urge to cross protective arms across her chest. "Thanks." The word dripped with sarcasm. God, why was she doing this? Surely it hadn't been so long for him, that he'd forgotten it was inappropriate to point out how small a woman's breasts were.

His eyes stopped their journey at her tone, met hers. "No, I like it. It's just… the person you are, it tricks the mind. As strong as you appear, your smallness feels surprising. A nice surprise." A whisper of a smile came across his lips for a second, as he referenced their earlier conversation. "The contrast is… quite exquisite."

She'd been told similar things before… that she acted taller, bigger, _tougher _than she appeared_. _And it was true; you didn't get to be a respected cop by acting like a little girl. Still, Jane's observation felt so very personal, and she almost wished for the casual detachment from him with which he regarded evidence in their cases.

Hell, who was she kidding. There was no 'almost' about it. Not when she was doing what she was doing.

"I don't really care what you think of my body, as long as you can finish this," she said. Intimacy countered with coldness. A reminder of exactly where they stood.

"I'm sorry I hurt your feelings."

"You didn't hurt me." She immediately resisted the notion.

He shook his head. "Stop it, Lisbon. If you wanted sex where feelings didn't matter, you could have easily found it. At a bar, on the internet. Even at work. You're doing this because I give a damn. It's not the only reason, but it's part of it."

"I'm doing this because it's easy." She knew how ridiculous the words were, before they even her mouth.

"Easy? _I'm _easy?" The words were incredulous, as they should have been.

She tried, one more time. "You're here. That makes you easier than anyone else."

She expected more protest, and she looked forward to it; bickering with him was comfortable, and familiar, and she could certainly handle it, half-naked or no. But instead he reached out, those big, magical hands first spanning her waist, then trailing slowly up her ribcage until his thumbs brushed the bottoms of her breasts.

The oxygen left the room, and she took a harsh breath, trying to bring it back. His eyes flicked to hers at the sound, assessing, and a slow smile that was part angel and part sin touched his lips at the same second as he stroked her nipples. "Yes. I am here."

She hadn't been close enough to _anybody _in such a long time, to be touched there, like that. It brought forth a torrent of sexual sensation that had so far stayed bubbling under the surface, and with a moan she surrendered to it, grabbing his arms and yanking him to her a little harder than she had to.

If he were surprised, it didn't show; he let himself be pulled by her, into her kiss. _Their _kiss. There was no pretense of gentle exploration or tenderness, just the hot and wet and urgent tangle of tongues and sliding of lips and _holy mother of all things good _she was making out with _Patrick Jane, _struggling clumsily to liberate him from his vest and shirt at the same time and not being very successful but it couldn't be helped because she _couldn't stop. _She might have been frightened by the train-wreck intensity that was driving her, if she was in any way capable of thinking of _anything _beyond the taste of him, and the way his solid chest pressed against her bare breasts, and the nearly effortless way he waltzed her toward the staircase as if this were _his _place, and he knew the layout by heart.

Satisfyingly, though, his logic seemed to be somewhat impaired as well; he was alternately trying to stroke her skin and get in her pants, oblivious to the fact that a woman with pants around her knees was not going to move very effectively. Still, she approved of the goal, and helped him as much as she could without actually having to stop kissing him.

His fingers on her skin were driving her crazy, and now that she decided this was going to happen she wanted it to happen in a hurry. They were halfway up the stairs when she stumbled, landing on her ass. The ache that resulted reminded her that she hadn't _really _completely recovered from her earlier activities, no matter how much Jane's magic touch made it seem so. She winced, and when he grabbed her to haul her back up, she pulled him down instead. His knees would probably bruise where they hit the stair. Right now, she didn't particularly care.

He cursed softly, but seemed to appreciate that giving up on walking meant he could get her clothes off faster. Now, he pulled her pants the rest of the way off, leaving her naked on the staircase for perhaps the first time in her history of living in this place. She herself had been so far less successful in undressing him, only managing to get rid of his vest, and unbuttoning his shirt half the way.

Then his mouth fell to her chest, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses down the slope of her breasts, tongue tracing her pebbled nipples until she was gasping and clutching his hair, and she found that at least momentarily, getting him naked could wait.

He murmured against her skin between kisses. "You taste like Satsuma and honey. It's lovely."

She didn't need him to talk right now. She grabbed his head, sunk her fingers into his curls and pushed his face down her body. He went willingly, nipping at the flesh of her lower belly, fingers dancing lightly on the inside of her thighs.

Had she ever felt this crazed by sex before, reason so obliterated by sensation that she couldn't even make it to her next sentence, let alone to her bedroom? Or was it not the sex she was crazed by, but this _man, _who had never failed to drive her crazy but had never directed his energy towards her, quite like this? Whatever the case, her eyes slammed shut when his skillful tongue darted out for a long lick between her legs, ending at her clit where he made maddening circles that strummed her into impossible arousal. She didn't want to know it was him who was making her feel this way, and she threw an arm over her eyes even as she began bucking towards his lips.

Then his mouth was gone, and a gentle hand pulled at her wrist. She kept her eyes shut, reached out blindly to try to urge him to continue.

"Lisbon…"

Her name, in that lilting and familiar tone.

"What?" She finally opened her eyes to glare at him, him with his hair ruffled from her pulling, his lips damp with her own arousal.

"You're not letting yourself feel this."

She stared in disbelief. "And you are?" she snapped, not needing her motivations questioned, or her feelings. She'd been trying to null and void her feelings.

He was panting slightly, pinning her with his clear gaze. "I assure you that I feel every bit of guilt and conflict that you'd imagine I would. Along with a sense of wonder, excitement, and breathless arousal that you probably wouldn't."

It was practically poetry, and underneath the aggression and rebellion that she held close to her, she felt herself moved; just a little, but she'd been standing still for so long that this felt like the earth was cracking and splitting open underneath her. For just a second, their gaze caught and held. There was a moment of clarity about the man he was, behind the show, behind the ready smile and irreverent disregard of the rules she clung to. She saw immeasurable pain and fear and anger and a million heartbreaking emotions that might have made her want to cry for him if she also didn't see the _hope _that was there. He might have wanted to believe he was broken behind repair, that revenge was the last thing he lived for. He might believe that he was incapable and unworthy of being loved.

He wasn't.

"Jane," she murmured.

His crystalline eyes shone.

And then she remembered that if she was so clearly seeing into the soul of him, he was most certainly seeing into hers.

The part of her that was open snapped shut in an instant.

"Fuck me," she commanded.

His eyes darkened. He gave up fighting her, and maybe for the first time in their relationship, obeyed her order the first time around. His hand went to his buckle, undoing it and his zipper with nimble fingers; his slacks only made it halfway down his ass before they reached for each other in sync. He kneeled two steps down from her, bracing himself to either side of her shoulders; she hung her ass over stair and the position was entirely awkward but it served its purpose and that was all that mattered.

He entered her.

Eyelids fluttering at his first thrust , she lost all awareness of the unforgiving press of the stair's edge against her back and the wood chafing her elbows, instead losing herself in pleasure tinged with the ache of being stretched so far, after such a long while. Fuck, she had missed this.

It took him scant seconds to get the leverage he needed but once he did, he used it to perfection, driving up and into her, watching with eyes darkened to navy as her breasts bounced in time with his frenetic pumping.

A sense of desperate disbelief filled her as her orgasm approached, ridiculously quick and impossibly stirring. Ironically, he was the both the worst and best person to do this with. The worst because he was _Jane…_ arrogant and self-absorbed and irreverent about most everything that mattered to her, dark obsession wrapped in a pretty package with a bow smile. But… if she were looking for sex without even the mere _possibility _of more, then a man who was still, in his own way, hopelessly devoted to his dead wife was her best bet.

She would have wondered if he was comparing her to the woman, if she could think. She might have felt bad, for spurring this on when he (_they) _were so obviously not ready for it. But she could only chant a litany of ecstatic curses while she arched and tilted her hips so he hit that spot _right there oh fuck yes just like that_ and her climax bloomed deep in her belly and unfurled from there, making her quiver uncontrollably and regrettably miss the moment when he fell apart seconds later, jerking inside her with a grunt. The paradox would occur to her only afterward, how this had started so she could smash through his cool, controlled façade, and she missed the evidence of having done just that because she was too busy having _hers _destroyed.

Jane won again. Always.

With a gasp he fell forward, heavy on her naked breast, moist lips against her shoulder. Almost against her volition, she raised a weak hand to his hair, holding him to her chest. The endorphins from her orgasm allowed her to tolerate the weight of him for a few minutes, until the reality of how uncomfortable this was became undeniable.

She couldn't move; she could barely even breathe. All the good he had done with his earlier massage hadn't prepared her for aggressive sex on her hardwood stairs, and now her body felt positively battered. If she didn't _know _it was going to hurt, she might have laughed at just how masochistic this whole experience was; maybe she did need that therapy that the Bureau kept trying to force on her.

"Jane," she said, brokenly. He heard the pain in her voice and immediately eased up and off her. Gazing down on her, he looked almost as ravaged as she did. Almost. "I can't…"

"Shh." He pulled away from her, the separation of their bodies somehow feeling painful too, groaning as he straightened his legs. She watched helplessly, afraid to flex any of her taxed muscles. Pulling up and buttoning his slacks quickly, he bent over, repressing his own wince at the motion as he gently gathered her up in his arms.

"Don't…" she protested.

"Don't even start with me, woman," he said, grunting as he hoisted her up, making sure he was stable on his feet before trudging up the stairs.

Weakly she gave in, resting her head exhaustedly on his shoulder as he carried her to her bedroom, where he kicked the door open gently. When he laid her naked and still-damp body on the bed, she nearly groaned in relief; comfort. Finally.

He nudged her. "Roll."

She didn't bother to argue with him; had no life left in her to do so. Rolling to her belly, she buried her face in her pillow and sighed as his hands resumed the massage they had abandoned in her office.

"You sure know how to get yourself in trouble," he said, zeroing in on the spot where the stair had dug into her back.

She hissed at the sensation. "Very funny."

His fingers pressed soothing circles over her aching muscles. "You aren't going to work tomorrow, either. You should rest."

"Shut up," she groused, her words not quite reaching the authoritative tone she tried for because he was just making her feel so goddamn… _cared-for. _"You don't have to do this. You don't have to be here."

"Don't be that way."

"Let's not make it weird, okay? We both know what this was."

_A power-play. A struggle for control. The consequence of too many lonely nights and a niggling suspicion that there was life outside of walls they'd both constructed._

There was silence for what felt like a long time. When he spoke again, his voice had a quality she'd heard before, but only rarely—in the raw moments where he'd been shaken, and the honesty was wrenched from him like a child from her father's arms.

"I don't really… get close. Not anymore. But if I did... I might try to. With you."

It was so hard to tell with him; the teasing from the truth, the genuine from the performance. That's why it would have made her angry again, how much his words warmed her in spite of herself, how despite her logic screaming at her to _be careful _her heart responded as if what he said were fact. The bastard made her _feel _things, always had, both bad and good… and isn't that why she hated him sometimes? Why even _work _didn't seem like a safe haven for her anymore, as long as he was there?

"Why do you have to say things like that?" she regretted.

She heard his ghost of a smile, rather than saw it.

"Just go with it, Lisbon."

She closed her eyes, relaxed into his hands. And just for tonight…

She did.

* * *

**A/N: Oh my gosh that got long. *bites fingernails* So how did I do? I'm still working on understanding the voices of these characters, so any and all feedback is welcome.**


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